You Could Be Happy
by hopelessromantic549
Summary: She falls asleep on his bed. She doesn’t bother changing, and she doesn’t bother turning off the lights or getting under the covers. That is a comfort she simply will not allow herself. This is what her life has become. BB, between WITW and PITH. O/S.


**A/N: So this is basically a look into those two weeks after Booth was shot/declared dead. I thought there was **_**so much**_** material there, so much potential emotional epiphanies (excuse my cheesiness) that just wasn't explored on the show, and this is what came of that frustration. Alternate ending from PITH, just because.**

**Thank you for reading! Enjoy :) **

You Could Be Happy

_Grief is like the ocean.  
It's deep, and dark, and bigger than all of us.  
And pain is like a thief in the night.  
Quiet. Persistent. Unfair.  
Diminished by time, and faith.  
And love.  
- Episode 6.03, One Tree Hill_

She stands there, head bowed, arms crossed, eyebrows furrowed. The grass is still dewy from the light rain the night before, the sky a brilliant blue that almost hurts her eyes. She thinks it's ironic that his funeral is on such a beautiful day. He deserves rain, hard, cold, bitter rain that is just as cynical as she is. He deserves the world mourning his loss.

She knows she already is.

Logically, this makes sense. When the deluded Pam Noonan shot FBI Special Agent Seeley Booth, the bullet pierced his thorasic artery and corroded the blood flowing through his left ventricle, effectively blocking the passage of oxygen. His heart ceased functioning almost the moment he was shot, and he remained on a ventilator for a few days before he finally succumbed to death.

She wonders for a moment whether he's in his beloved Heaven. She doesn't believe in God – faith is a theory that has not been proven, not a fact – but he does (did, she reminds herself). She hopes he's found peace, wherever he is. (She knows perfectly well that he will only rot in the ground, but she has to comfort herself somehow). She can usually compartmentalize, usually separate herself from errant thoughts of self-pity and sorrow. But she recognizes that on this occasion, that innate ability has completely and utterly failed her.

Caroline Julian – the same Caroline Julian who blackmailed Brennan into kissing Booth only a few months ago – speaks affectionately about the man she pretended to loath. Her voice is raw, weak, but gaining strength as she details Booth's many attributes.

All Brennan can think is that no one will ever call her Bones again.

--

The day Booth is declared dead, Brennan works late into the night. She has some World War II remains to identify, and it keeps her distracted. Truthfully, she's not in any pain. She just feels numb. (She knows that's not really possible).

Angela tries to convince her to go home and get some rest, but she shrugs her off with practiced nonchalance. She's almost collapsing under the weight of so much uncertainty, and she can't leave the comfort of the lab. Her apartment has too many memories to be safe; all she sees is Mac and Cheese and Thai food and case studies and drafts of her latest novel. And _him_. Always him.

She tries to concentrate on the skeleton she's studying – the remains of an eighteen-year-old African-American soldier – but her eyes keep slipping, her focus faltering. She's usually able to sustain long hours, because usually she at least has the possibility of taking refuge in Booth's apartment. But that is not feasible anymore.

It's three'o'clock before she musters the courage to dwell in the darkness. She flips off all the lights in the Jeffersonian and drives the empty streets for a few hours, her thoughts drifting and swelling until her very being aches with loss (both his and hers).

She finally comes to a stop in front of Booth's apartment. She's not sure how she got there – theoretically, her brain simply followed its routine route – but she shrugs and gets out of the car.

She's been avoiding this place since Booth was shot. He was in the hospital for a few days, and his apartment seems empty without him. Somehow. Irrationally.

But it's night, and she is afraid of her apartment. She is afraid images of him will leap out of the darkness; she is afraid his form will haunt her dreams. She knows it's not possible – she's a genius, after all – but every conversation she ever had with him seems to contradict that belief. Is he here with her, right now? Can she feel him?

She wonders if the grip he has on her heart will loosen with time.

Her steps are light, methodical as she walks towards the door she knows so well. Anthropologically speaking, it is quite possible for a person's eye to become accustomed to the sight of certain objects, and she has frequented Booth's apartment so many times that she feels she could trace the very pattern of the wood with her eyes closed. But the door feels foreign now.

Probably because he doesn't lurk behind there anymore.

--

She resists the urge to cry, because she is Dr. Temperance Brennan. (Besides, Angela's doing enough crying for the both of them). She tries to rationalize this last loss as she stands there by his coffin (tasteful cherry oak, like he would have wanted), but it doesn't make her feel any better.

Booth is gone. He's really gone.

And just then, of course, there's a flicker of movement in the line of soldiers saluting their fallen comrade, and her eyes instinctively flit to their stoic faces. She thinks she recognizes someone, thinks she might know the man who is wearily sweeping his gaze across the cemetery.

Is that…?

But no, it's illogical. She was there when the doctors declared Booth dead. He is not coming back. Not this time.

She trains her gaze on Caroline, watching as the puckish attorney lays a single red rose on Seeley Booth's dark, regal coffin. Brennan – she cannot call herself Bones just yet – swallows the awkward mass in her throat and lets her head swivel from side to side.

"Seeley Booth was a good man," Caroline proclaims, and Brennan can't help but wonder if someone will speak at _her _funeral like that. Somehow, she is certain Booth would have been the one to perform those rites if he had outlived her, and the thought leaves a hollow sound ringing in her ears.

She curses the very moment she became an emotional wreck.

--

During the two weeks in which Booth is "dead," Brennan walks the thin line between numbness and pain.

Not that she would ever admit that, of course.

She wakes up earlier than normal, gets dressed more quickly than probably healthy, drives to work while violating several traffic laws and running several red lights. She's always gone to work early, but that's not what is worrying to all the squints. (Her face is white and her hair is straggly). The sun hasn't even risen when she flashes her card at the turntable and starts identifying remains.

She isn't assigned a new FBI Special Agent, probably because corporate assumes she's not ready to move forward. She scoffs at the assumption that she's in mourning. She just lost a partner. It's an occupational hazard. Truly, she's fine.

The lab is quieter than it ever has been, even back when the air was thick with barely suppressed resentment when Booth first began working with Brennan's team. No one speaks if they can help it.

Angela runs off with tears in her eyes almost every half hour, and Hodgins scampers after her, his jaw clenching as he tries to hide his mirroring sorrow. Zach hangs his head as he articulates the details Brennan impatiently asks for, and his voice shakes and stutters, an unusual response for him. Sweets solemnly offers advice and psychological insight, but his words are dry, and he struggles to remain impartial. Cam shakes her head vehemently whenever someone approaches her, and she comes in to work around noon every day. And Brennan?

Brennan remains unchanged.

She identifies sixty bones "in limbo," as Booth would say – if he were still alive, Brennan rebukes herself – in just a couple days. She works and she works, and she only pauses for coffee. Every night, she doesn't leave until Cam personally kicks her out at around eleven.

And every night, without fail, she heads to Booth's apartment, lets herself in with the key Booth has hidden – or tried to hide, she thinks ruefully and somewhat affectionately – and stands in the foyer for a long moment. It is only then that the tears begin to leak from her tired eyes.

She walks slowly to Booth's bedroom, shedding clothes and leaving them in her wake. Her hands cling to the wall as if that will help her keep her balance, and she pauses in his doorway. She almost thinks she can see him huddled on the bed, his chest heaving rhythmically, his messy brown hair falling ever so slightly over his forehead.

But she doesn't believe in ghosts – or apparations, or hallucinations, or whatever the hell they should be called – and so she lets herself sink down on the edge of his bed. She sits there for a long moment, not bothering to wipe away the moisture that rolls awkwardly off her chin. She stares at the walls, wondering dreamily what exact color Booth painted them, and thinks of everything she shared with Booth. Everything she lost.

She falls asleep on his bed, in her work clothes. She doesn't bother changing, and she doesn't bother turning off the lights or getting under the covers. That is a comfort she simply will not allow herself.

This is what her life has become.

--

The sun is glaring, and Brennan suddenly, obnoxiously wishes she had her sunglasses. She realizes that it's considered inappropriate to wear sunglasses to a funeral – a custom she's never understood, despite her education; why is protecting your eyes from the sun's harmful UV rays disrespectful to the dead? – and so instead just shields her eyes. She squints, almost missing the moment when the military cavalry performs its usual rites.

She doesn't care much anyway. Booth being in the military is (was?) his past, and she is (was) his present. That's all that matters.

She wonders if she would have been his future.

--

Angela screams at Brennan sometimes. But only when the forensic anthropologist is acting particularly obtuse. Usually the artist just leaves her alone, sensing that there's a lot Brennan will never tell her about this time in her life. But when Brennan feigns – at least, Angela _hopes_ she's faking – disinterest in anything concerning Booth, Angela can't control herself.

About a week after Booth is declared dead, the squints – as Booth so affectionately dubbed them – gather around the lab table in the Jeffersonian and share memories about their favorite FBI agent. It's cathartic.

Hodgins recounts the time he drove Booth to the abandoned warehouse where Brennan was being held by Kenton, despite Booth's two broken ribs. Cam remembers his attentiveness when she was in the hospital after Epps' attack. Zach talks about the time Booth took him out for drinks and told him how to get girls. Angela hops through various memories, laughing and crying in turn.

Brennan is silent, and when Cam prompts her, asking her if she has anything she'd like to share, the scientist responds icily, "I don't understand the reasoning behind this discussion. Booth is dead. He can't hear any of this. We're all acting rather ridiculous." No one is too surprised. This is Dr. B, after all.

But Angela is pissed off. This has been going on for too long.

Later, she finds Brennan in her office and unleashes a week's worth of pent-up emotions. "What the hell is _wrong _with you?" she screams, slamming the door shut behind her. She doesn't want an audience to this.

Brennan is confused. "I don't understand. I'm just working on my –"

"I don't _care_!" Angela yells. She's not usually this explosive, but she's anxious to make Brennan feel something. She's spent more than a decade trying to break down her best friend's mile-high walls, and Booth accomplished much more in the three years he knew her. She feels like that's got to mean _something_. "You've been almost robotic since Booth was declared dead, and I can't take it anymore. Aren't you sad that he's gone? Doesn't it hurt? God, Brennan, you _loved_ him!"

She lets out a harsh breath and slumps into the nearest chair. That outburst took a lot of her. She waits for Brennan's retaliation.

She doesn't have to wait long. Brennan stands up, kicking her chair behind her, and counters, her blue eyes flashing with more emotions than Angela can identify, "Of _course_ it hurts! Of _course_ I'm sad! But I have a job to do and people to save and remains to identify, and dwelling over the simple facts of life doesn't help me!" She exhales sharply, her chest heaving with barely suppressed emotion, and continues, ignoring the shock on Angela's face, "And as to whether I loved him, well, that's irrevelant now, isn't it? It's completely unproductive to contemplate the possiblities of 'what could have been,' as you would say. Booth is dead, and nothing I say or do can change that. So excuse me if I'd rather focus on what I can still control!" She lets out a loud "Humph!" and sits back down, reverting her focus to her computer screen.

Angela nods dumbly, stunned by the strength of Brennan's reaction. She wanted to get something out of her best friend, but she didn't expect an almost-declaration of love and a flat-out admission of grieving. Wow. She totally outdid herself with this one.

"I'm sorry," she whispers.

She doesn't bring it up again.

--

Brennan falters, breaks when a uniformed military man jumps out of the line of soldiers and attacks a random, seemingly ordinary man who has stepped forward to put a rose on Booth's coffin. The congregation – group, assembly, whatever – of mourners gasps and takes a few shuffling steps backward.

Brennan's hand flies to her mouth, shock distorting her features as she watches the scuffle. Her eyes strain to identify the military man, because he looks familiar, seems like someone she might have known unce upon a time…

Except, of course, that fairytales have absolutely no basis in reality.

A single moment passes, her heart bumping awkwardly in her chest, before her brain registers the fact that the military man rolling around on the ground is, in fact, Booth. (His hair is styled exactly the same way, his brown eyes are alight with that telltale mixture of duty and excitement, his mouth is set in a grim line she recognizes only too well).

Booth.

He's alive?

She shakes her head, her hair whispering past her cheeks, because she saw his heartbeat steadily decline until it was nonexistent on that frustratingly simple monitor, saw his bloodstained clothes and the chipped Cocky belt buckle, saw the doctor's grim expression as he offered his condolences to the wife of FBI Special Agent Seeley Booth. (Brennan hadn't had the strength to correct him). She _knows_ he's dead (was dead, has been dead, _will_ be dead).

Right?

No.

Because she can see him right now, fighting that man – whoever the hell he is – and grunting with pain. And the crippling relief and anger (twin emotions that shock her with their strength) that flood her senses at the sight also spur her forward, toward this duel of sorts. (She has to confront him).

In the chaos of the moment, as Brennan steps forward, the top of Booth's coffin (a coffin he obviously never inhabited) slides off, and Brennan peers over the top. She is disgusted to find that a dummy has been laid on the soft cloth.

But she doesn't have time to be angry at Booth's deception (that is the only logical explanation), not yet. She has to attack this odd, strange man, because he seems to be winning the fight between him and Booth. And no matter how annoyed or frustrated or confused she may be, she would like Booth alive, thank you very much.

So she wrenches the dummy's arm out of its socket and swings it quite belligerently at Booth's oponent's head. The man sinks to the ground, dumb shock flickering in his almost painfully blue eyes, and the line of military soldiers quickly surround him, rifles pointed hostilely in his direction.

Booth stands up straight, turning his head to look at Brennan. She returns his gaze with as stoic an expression as she can bear, and suddenly, she feels like crying. (She's never understood the anthropological point of tears, but she can't control the urge). He's here, and he's alive, and he's looking at her. And he didn't _tell_ her!

She strides over to him, defiance brightening her eyes, and he smiles, oblivious to the torrent of anger that is currently pulsing through Brennan's body.

"Nice shot, Bones," he murmurs, that charm grin settling on his features, and Brennan's breath catches in her throat. It has been two weeks since she last heard his voice, two weeks since she last heard him call her "Bones," and the thought is unreasonably, unfortunately saddening.

He extends his arms, as if he intends to hug her, but she reels backward instinctively. (She's too angry at him to touch him just yet). He looks confused at her resistance, and she relishes the doubt in his eyes.

(She's usually the one faltering in their relationship, but not today).

With a triumphant smile, she drives her arm back and punches him with all the force she can muster. He lets out a groan and shakes his head vehemently. She smiles sweetly.

"_That_ is for letting me think you were dead for two weeks."

She strides away, and she doesn't look back.

He's dumbfounded, but then again, he knows he deserves her words. (He should have told her).

--

Brennan initially refuses to go the funeral. (She personally believes funerals are antiquated rituals designed to facilitate the presumed mourning of the deceased's relatives and companions).

Angela, of course, convinces her at last. "Sweetie," she murmurs, drawing up beside her best friend (and current cold-hearted bitch, as far as she can tell), "Please come to the funeral." Hodgins stands strong and silent behind her; they are all dressed in black, mirroring expressions of grief plastered on their faces.

Brennan shakes her head minutely, not even stemming the flow of medical jargon leaving her mouth as she looks over the remains on the table. She doesn't _want_ to go to the funeral; she's doing just fine, actually. She doesn't need to mourn.

But Angela takes a deliberate step in front of Brennan, blocking her view of the human remains, and pleads, "Please, Bren. I need you. _Booth_ needs you."

Brennan's head snaps up, her eyes alight with long-supressed sorrow. "And I need him," she counters, in a rare show of both vulnerabity and completely uncharacterstic emotional admittance. Angela is a bit taken aback. "But rationally, Booth is dead. He does not _need_ anything, and I cannot have him either."

A lone tear leaks out of Angela's eye, and she murmurs, "Oh _sweetie_." She is suddenly so sorry for all the times she has wondered if Brennan is sad Booth is gone. She wishes she had been able to see the obvious grief in her best friend's eyes. She wishes she had _known_.

Brennan shakes her head, pushing away her errant emotions, as she always does (she learned long ago that empirical science is better than faith). "I'm fine."

But her voice falters, and Angela recognizes that Brennan is _not _fine. She also realizes that she doesn't need permission to do what she does next.

The maternal, broken woman folds the seemingly ice-cold scientist into her arms, clasping her hands behind her back and holding her close to her body. She thinks the embrace might help Brennan release some of her sorrow.

Brennan doesn't resist the proximity; in fact, she almost…_enjoys_ it. She hasn't allowed herself to feel the pain of Booth's death yet, and the avoidance has been excruciatingly agonizing. She feels guilty for trying to pretend Booth's absence – permanent absence – has not affected her (broken her heart, robbed her of her soul).

"We should go to the funeral," Angela whispers, softly, almost inaudibly.

The room holds its breath. All the squints – Cam winces at the thought; no one has called them squints since that dreadful hospital visit – close their eyes and hope Brennan finally gives in.

The anthropologist nods, her shoulders trembling slightly, and murmurs, "Okay."

Angela breathes a sigh of relief.

Brennan breathes a sigh of regret.

--

It is only after the initial shock of his reappearance (she would say resurrection, but that would prompt a discussion about whether Jesus – if he even exists – was really dead before his so-called rebirth, and she doesn't want to get into an imagined debate with the Booth that dwells in her subconscience) wears off that she feels rational enough to approach him. Everyone but him – and her, she mentally adds; literal as always – has left the cemetery by now, and the sun is poised at the horizon, as if it's waiting for something to happen.

Brennan curses herself for the use of the metaphor and strides purposefully over to the man she was certain – anthropologically, scientifically, and empirically certain – was dead until just over thirty five minutes ago. He's standing by one of the headstones, his brow furrowed in concentration, his military-issue cap doffed, his hands clasped behind his back. He looks like he might be praying.

Her heart aches as she narrows the distance between them. (She knows the heart is an organ that cannot physically ache unless she has cardiovascular problems, but she allows the slip to pass unreproached). He looks quite sorrowful, and despite her frustration over his lack of disclosure, despite how angry she still is that he thought even for a second that he could leave her…despite all that, she realizes she missed him very much in the weeks she thought he was dead. She doesn't want to be without him anymore.

She stands in front of him, holding his gaze with something like fire dancing in her ice-blue eyes. (He's always loved the contrast). She says softly, a gentle rebuke, "You should have told me."

She won't apologize for punching him. (She doesn't regret it).

He nods, a meek response for him. She waits for more, and without prompting he launchs into an elaborate explanation of everything leading up to his sudden appearance at his own funeral.

After a moment, he starts to babble, desperately trying to explain that she was one of the people who was supposed to know that he was dead and that obviously the Bureau messed up and that he is so sorry he put her all through this pain. He wrings his hands in despair, his eyes dark with worry and anguish, and he starts to pace back and forth, words spilling out of his mouth like water from a faucet. (It's not as lovely a metaphor as she would like, if she's going to be figurative anyway).

And all she can think is that she loves this man.

It's a realization that surprises her, challenges her. But she welcomes it.

A sudden torrent of memories floods her mind, and she almost stumbles backward. Every moment they ever shared, every Thai take-out dinner at her place, every funeral paid and arranged for, every new pop cultural reference introduced, every stupid, silly, inconsequential gift presented. Every stitch that makes up the fabric of their thinly woven, almost _too_ carefully defined relationship.

Because that's what it is. A relationship. They're not just partners, and Brennan realizes that maybe they never were just partners. They were always friends, and for longer than she cares to remember, they've been dancing around their unresolved sexual tension and their lurking emotions. But now, she's tired of it. Because she prides herself on being blunt, and she won't let this realization pass unnoticed.

So she takes a steady, purposeful step toward Booth. He raises his hands in surrender, as if he's afraid she will punch him again, but she only takes another step, and then another step. She keeps moving forward until she's standing right in front of him.

Her hands reach out of their own accord, and with tears beginning to well in her eyes, she traces the planes of his chest with her fingers. He feels solid beneath her hands, his pectoral and abdominal muscles hard and defined. He feels _real_, and with a choking sob she leans against him and slips her arms around her waist. It simply does not make sense, him standing here, with her. Only moments ago he was lying in a coffin, and now…

He hesitates, his body stiffening, but then his hands settle on the small of her back, rubbing soothing circles. "It's okay, Bones," he murmurs, obviously hoping to comfort her and ease her sobs a little.

But his words only exacerbate her tears, and he seems anxious that he cannot make it stop; his hands tense and his chest muscles flex. What he doesn't realize, though, is that she's not crying because she's sad he left her, and she's not crying because she's angry at him for pretending he was dead. She's crying because she's _happy_. Happy that he's alive, happy that he's not pushing her away, happy that she finally has a chance to tell him how much he means to her.

So she takes that chance, a chance she should have taken the first time he pushed her up against a wall and challenged her authority.

She reaches up on her tiptoes and clasps her hands around his neck. She sighs, waiting for him to shrink away from her. But he doesn't.

He never has.

She summons the courage he has instilled in her and murmurs, "I'm sorry."

He doesn't ask her why. (He always knows).

She touches her lips to the base of his neck and whispers a cool, muffled "I love you" against the skin of his throat. She presses her finger to his pulse and keeps it there, feeling his heart beat beneath her touch. She feels his heart beat, and she doesn't let go.

_fin_


End file.
